Part 18

“As I was sayin',” continued Ben, “there's two churches up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you”--here Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at Tommy's face--“I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere hinstitution!” And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or her opinions was impossible to him.

“An' what's more,” continued Ben, “this 'ere hinstitution in which we're a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!” And still Tommy remained silent.

“An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money 'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the same.”

“Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?”

“Yes, that's w'at I 'ear,” conceded Ben. “But e'll soak 'em good at poker.”

“Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin,” said Tommy enthusiastically. “An' it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid lights'--”

“'Red lights'?” interrupted Ben. “Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'.”

“Who did, thin?”

“Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man.”

“Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape.”

“Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon.” Ben's h's became more lubricous with his rising indignation. “An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!”

“Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?”

“No,” said Ben, “I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't.”

“Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane.”

“My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!” cried Ben, whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking.

“Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a batin'!”

“I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital,” replied Ben scornfully, “but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher--”

“Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's worth--”

“Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!” Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. “I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution--”

“Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand--Howly Moses! here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!”

“Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well to-day,” cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit.

“Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?” said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. “Sure, it's better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face.”

“Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to blarney.”

“Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to do that same.”

“Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing my annual report.”

“Report!” cried Ben. “A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh.”

And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for herself.

The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled with misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new spring dress.

For some moments Dick stood gazing. “Of all views I see, this is the best,” he said. “Day or night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it always brings me rest and comfort.”

“Rest and comfort?” echoed Margaret, coming to his side. “Yes, I understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long.”

“I understand,” replied Dick, slowly. “Barney used to say the same about the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill.”

Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with every deeper throb.

“Come, this won't do,” said Margaret, almost sharply.

“No, it won't do,” replied Dick, each reading the thought in the other's heart.

“I am struggling with my report,” said Margaret in a business-like tone. “What shall I say? How shall I begin?”

“Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook.”

“Hush, Dick,” said Margaret softly. “You are forgetting the man who travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too, watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the hospital cannot cure.”

“Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying their prayers.”

“Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?”

“Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many--”

“What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!”

“Yes,” replied Dick. “But think of what there would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established hospitals, and all that sort of thing.”

“So you've got it, too,” said Margaret, with a smile.

“Got what?”

“Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere.”

“Is that so?” replied Dick, laughing. “Well, there are some who have escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him.”

“And yet they say he is--”

“Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. But he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember the big fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our church unless I'd leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British army in India against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, one of them an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. These people were their best customers. Why, they actually went so far as to write to the Presbytery that I was antagonizing the people and ruining the Church. Well, you remember the big meeting called to protest against this vice? The enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the 'Liberal' side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow dying up the line. It looked for a complete knockout for me. In came Dr. Bailey, waited till they were all through their talk, and then went for them. He didn't speak more than ten minutes, but in those ten minutes he crumpled them up utterly and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers and the editor of The Pioneer, I understand, went white and red, yellow and green, by turns. The crowd simply yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with the men. They passed my resolution standing on the backs of their seats. Quite true, the doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and stayed at it all night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and all the more because I am told he was after that fellow 'Mexico' and his gang. Oh, it was a fine bit of work. I've often wished to meet him, but he's a hard man to find. He must be a good sort at bottom.”

“To hear Tommy talk,” replied Margaret, “you would make up your mind he was a saint. He tells the most heart-moving stories of his ways and doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on their luck. Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in regard to the comparative merits of the doctor and yourself.”

“Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough,” said Dick earnestly, “that you brought Ben West with you. It always makes me feel safer to think that he is here.”

“Ben will agree with you,” replied Margaret, “I assure you. He assumes full care of me and of the whole institution.”

“Good boy, Ben,” said Dick, heartily. “And he is a kind of link to that old home and--with the past, the beautiful past, the past I like to think of.” The shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, deepening its lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and unrest.

“A beautiful past it was,” replied Margaret gently. “We ought to be thankful that we have it.”

“Have you heard anything?” inquired Dick.

“No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after her arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her. She didn't know where he had gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but there has been no word since.”

Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud.

“Never mind, Dick, boy,” said Margaret, laying her hand upon his head as if he had been a child, “it will all come right some day.”

“I can't stand it, Margaret!” groaned Dick, “I shut it out from me for weeks and then it all comes over me again. It was my cursed folly that wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, for all I know, and mine!”

“You must not say wrecked,” replied Margaret.

“What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you would say; but whatever the next life has for us, there is nothing left in this that can atone!”

“That, too, you must not say, Dick,” said Margaret. “God has something yet for us. He always keeps for us better than He has given. The best is always before us. Besides,” she continued eagerly, “He has given you all this work to do, this beautiful work.”

The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. “Yes, yes, I must not forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave me this chance to work. What else should I want? And after all, this is the best. I can't help the heart-hunger now and then, but God forbid I should ever say a word of anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far down out of sight. He pulled me up. Who am I to complain? But I am not complaining! It is not for myself. If there were only one word to know he was doing well, was safe!” He turned suddenly to Margaret with an almost fierce earnestness. “Margaret, do you think God will give me this?” His voice was hoarse with the intensity of his passion. “Do you know, I sometimes feel that I don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything else. Wealth, honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are nothing to me if only I knew Barney was right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for you, Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to my love of my Lord, I'd give up to know. But three years have gone since that awful night and not a word! It eats and eats and eats into me here,” he smote himself hard over his heart, “till the actual physical pain is at times more than I can stand. What do you think, Margaret?” he continued, his face quivering piteously. “Every time I think of God I think of Barney. Every prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is Barney I am thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it long? Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives, does He take away the pain? Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this I preach!”

“Hush, Dick!” said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief she understood only too well. “Hush! You must not doubt God. God forgives and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the pain as soon as He can. You must believe this and wait and trust. God will give him back to us. I feel it here.” She laid her hand upon her heaving breast.

For some moments Dick was silent. “Perhaps so,” he said at length. “For your sake He might. Yes, down in my heart I believe he will.”

“Come,” said Margaret, “let us go out into the open air, into God's sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come, Dick, let us go and see the Goat cavort.” She took him by the arm and lifted him up. At the door she met Ben. “I won't be gone long, Ben,” she explained.

“Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret,” replied Ben graciously. “An' the longer yeh stay the better fer the hinstitution.”

“That's an extremely doubtful compliment,” laughed Margaret, as they passed down the winding path that made its way through the tall red pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a broad ledge of rock that jutted out over the boiling water, Margaret seated herself with her back against the big red polished bole of a pine tree, while at her feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge pine root that threw great clinging arms here and there about the rocky ledges. It was a sweet May day. All the scents and sounds of spring filled up the fragrant spaces of the woods. Far up through the great feathering branches gleamed patches of blue sky. On every side stretched long aisles pillared with the clean red trunks of the pine trees wrought in network pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, foaming out his futile fury at the unmoved black rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's edge, bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along ledges, hanging trembling to ragged edges, boldly climbing up to the forest, were all spring's myriad tender things wherewith she redeems Nature from winter's ugliness. From the river below came gusts of misty wind, waves of sound of the water's many voices. It was a spot where Nature's kindly ministries got about the spirit, healing, soothing, resting.

With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches wave about him and listening to the voices that came from the woods around and from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed from his heart and he grew strong and ready for the road again.

“You don't know how good this is, Margaret,” he said, “all this about me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you oftener I could bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. Oh, Margaret! if only you could let me hope that some day--”

“Look, Dick!” she cried, springing to her feet, “there's the train.”

It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like some great jointed reptile through the woods below.

“Tell me, Margaret,” continued Dick, “is it quite impossible?”

“Oh, Dick!” cried the girl, her face full of pain, “don't ask me!”

“Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?”

She clasped her hands above her heart. “Dick,” she cried piteously, “I can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. While Barney lives I could not be true and be another's wife.”

“While Barney lives!” echoed Dick blankly. “Then God grant you may never be mine!” He stood straight for a moment, then with a shake of his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. “Come, let us go,” he said. “There will be letters and I must get to work.”

“Yes, Dick dear,” said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, “there's always our work, thank God!”

Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which was to them, as to many others, God's salvation.

There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, but one among them made Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from Iola. She caught it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of Barney. She was not mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's glowing accounts of her season's triumph with Wagner. “It has been a great, a glorious experience,” wrote Iola. “I cannot be far from the top now. The critics actually classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was glorious. But I am tired out. The doctors say there is something wrong, but I think it is only that I am tired to death. They say I cannot sing for a year, but I don't want to sing for a long, long time. I want you, Margaret, and I want--oh, fool that I was!--I may as well out with it--I want Barney. I have no shame at all. If I knew where to find him I would ask him to come. But he would not. He loathes me, I know. If I were only with you at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong. Sometimes I am afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I think that is it. I am weary for those I love. Love! Love! Love! That is the best. If you have your chance, Margaret, don't throw away love! There, this letter has tired me out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is sore. But I must let it go.” The tears were streaming down Margaret's face as she read.

“Read it, Dick,” she said brokenly, thrusting the letter into his hands.

Dick read it and gave it back to her without a word.

“Oh, where is he?” cried Margaret, wringing her hands. “If we only knew!”

“The date is a month old,” said Dick. “I think one of us must go. You must go, Margaret.”

“No, Dick, it must be you.”

“Oh, not I, Margaret! Not I! You remember--”

“Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must go.”

“For Barney's sake,” said Dick, with a sob in his throat. “Yes, I'll go. I'll go to-night. No, I must go to see a man dying in the Big Horn Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to him. Oh! if I could only bring her back for him, dear old boy! God give me this!”

“Amen,” said Margaret with white lips. For hope lives long and dies hard.

XX

UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN

The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough country into the Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, led over high mountain shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For this reason, all who knew the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water in going up the canyon. True enough, there were a number of lift-outs and two rather long portages that made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man had skill with the paddle and knew the water he might avoid these by running the rapids. Men from the Ottawa or from some other north Canadian river, like all true canoemen, hated to portage and loved to take the risk of the rapids. Though the current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not so difficult as one might imagine; that is, if the canoeman happened to know how to take advantage of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet water by the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe into the swift water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, the keeper of the stopping place at the Landing, said, “She would walk on de rapide toute suite lak one oiseau.”